Red Tail
by 221bhasanimpalainthealley
Summary: BlackEye concerning a couple moments in Clint and Natasha's relationship. Only rated T because of a tiny bit of language and I want to cover all my bases.


Clint didn't like talking about the past. Especially not the past that was in any way associated with Natasha. There were boundaries in this relationship and that was definitely one of them. Still, that didn't stop him from thinking about it. These wandering thoughts weren't strictly on purpose. They only popped up every once in a while. When his eyes got tired of noticing every thing. When Tony was being too much of an ass. When Steve tried to exert more leadership than Clint was willing to follow.

Natasha, 95% of the time, stayed in bed an extra half an hour whenever she woke up to rain. This didn't bother Clint, if they didn't have anywhere to be. He'd follow the gentle rise and fall of her chest and watch as her hair curled into new patterns on the pillow. It was this sort of routine that he relished, the ones that could happen even on missions. They got a whole five minutes in Buenos Aires, a sprinkle tumbling in from the sea just before they started to trail a major drug lord.

He liked to recall in the bed. Lying out, exposed, something that would never be allowed outside the Mansion. He'd close his eyes, tune out all the background noise, and sink into the pillows that were far more plush than necessary. A part of him kept whispering that it was a bad idea. The past is the past so let it stay dead because it hurts like a bitch. Clint let himself think of the innocuous things, though. He stayed away from Russia. And Iowa. And the one time in Saigon when Natasha nearly killed him and ran off with the mark because of some shit order Fury threw out.

More often than not, his memories took place on rainy days. Clint had yet to figure out if Natasha was simply more affectionate when they had no place to go, or if his penchant for rainy day remembrances somehow seeped into the memory. Still, he had his favorites.

_Soon after they first met, he discovered she was enchanting. Which was her job, of course. It was all in her file and he didn't pay much attention to her walk, how she inched closer at every point in a story, the way her laugh floated to a point just above her head and stayed there for a moment before finally dissipating into the crowed. He didn't pay _much_ attention. It was somewhere after her sixth drink that he finally walked up, calling on his favorite way to get a lady's attention. "My god! You could drink an ox under the table!" _

_At this point, the first thing Clint noticed was that she didn't turn. He saw her ears prick and her smile widen, but her back stayed locked so he could only see the corner of her lips. It was when he heard her thanking the man she was with for the drink he had supposedly bought her that he knew it was his chance. The late spring rain had just started to batter the French windows of their middle of nowhere hotel when the Widow finally turned and looked him dead in the eye. Clint felt the deep forest green was a bit too beguiling to be natural, at the time. The gaze only lasted a moment before she approached him, drawing his ear to where she could speak to an audience of one. "Nice try, Red Tail." She glided away before Clint could regain his composure after having his cover blown._

Even with her love of the covers, Natasha was usually dressed by the time Clint dragged himself out of his stupor.

"What were you doing?" The voice was jarring, placed so closely to her "mark voice" simulated in his mind.

"Just, uh. Just remembering, I guess."

"Oh, sounds dangerous," Natasha whispered, throwing him a sideways glance. "Remembering what?" He watched her movements in the kitchenette. Her hands moved quickly, knowing where everything was from muscle memory. This many tablespoons of bargain brand coffee, followed by two teaspoons of a special blend they had picked up in Colombia. Natasha slid her eyes up Clint's torso before pausing in his pupils.

"Clint?" She asked, feeling that his stare was a bit stronger than usual. He shifted before actually looking at her.

"Oh, I suppose the time you… told me you trusted me." Clint recognized the glint in her eye, but still cracked a smile when her airy chuckle filled the room.

"I did what?"

"You heard me." Clint felt her chuckle work its way into his voice. Natasha started the coffee maker, then sauntered over to him, sitting next to his hip on the edge of the bed. She maintained a subtle smirk, but now looked straight into Clint's eyes.

"Because it needed saying?" He responded with a nod, careful to keep their eyes locked together.

"Yeah, I guess. It was for the stupidest thing though, in Budapest. Do you remember? We, uh… your shoulder was dislocated and I needed to put it back. You just kind of, looked up, and said, 'I trust you.'"

Natasha paused for a moment before commenting, "God, I said it out loud? That's worse than I imagined." Clint sat up and pulled Natasha into a familiar kiss. One bred in the mundane, at least what little mundane they could get.

"I thought it was cute," he teased after pulling away. Natasha pushed her forehead against Clint's. A ding sounded behind them.

"Coffee's ready, Red Tail."


End file.
